#hypntic

      ‘     𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘.     ’     he said it like an epiphany hitting him in the moment. the words were a realisation as luc stared down at her cold face.     ‘     you’ve ruined my life and you just don’t give a shit, do you? that’s what you wanted. you wanted me miserable and alone and hurting.     ’ // @hypntic​

      “ just because my dreams are different than yours doesn’t mean they’re unimportant . ” @hypntic​

fixes them with a look. “ --- well, this is awkward. i thought you hated nightclubs.” so does she, but that’s not the point.  

“will i be able to pop my knee back into place myself ?? i did that course in first aid, you know.” sarah is stuck between trying to downplay the fact that her leg is hurting like a motherfucker and practically vibrating with excitement that she’s in an actual hospital - just the waiting room, but still. she pulls the coat that one of the doormen had kindly gifted her closer around her nearly-naked frame. “i can’t believe that newbie thought it was a good idea to take a bath in baby oil before her first time dancing on the pole, and then not tell me about it.” beat. “actually, no, i can believe it, she’s a fucking moron. she will be getting my medical bill.”  

alex would love to know why he’s at a fucking book launch. aimee mentioned something vague about how publishing companies are important clients and networking and come on, it’s not like we’re sending you to war, alsandair, but that’s given him zero clarification. anyways, whatever it is he’s meant to be doing, he’s certain this isn’t it, anxiously loitering by the drinks table and probably sinking citadel banking’s stellar reputation. he barely glances at the man who joins him - tall, handsome - offering a non-committal grunt in space of a greeting, but then aimee stares daggers at him from across the room and he sighs deeply. “i really need to at least pretend to talk to you so my supervisor doesn’t break a champagne class and stab me with it, so --- hi.” 

“i feel it coming. look over here, miss journalist.” the writer, the author, the lost man — he twisted his wrist to point his watch towards the woman’s face. “can you see it?” ocean, almost crystal-coloured stare was waiting to catch at least a glimpse of a sudden reaction. and so his own brows turned into an arch. “still nothing?” bukowski sighed and dropped his gaze downward, examining the watch himself. “maybe form the other side.” quickly, his slender silhouette rose up. he walked around the restaurant’s table and approached the woman from behind. “look, miss ellis. look closely. can you see the reflection in my watch?” lips moved closer to her ears just to start their vicious whisper. “it’s you wasting my time.” he came back to his seat and sank the slenderness of his fingers inside his jacket’s pocket, looking for a cigarette. a hand-hand rolled cigarette. “care to share another drink with me? please, do not torture me with those questions anymore...”